


Fade to Black

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, Feels, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mycroft is a meddling prat, Pining Sherlock, Rehab, bored, emotional distress, implied cutting, implied severed relationship, jealous mary, miserable John, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-15 23:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: Upon returning from his honeymoon, John receives a phonecall from Mycroft Holmes, informing him that Sherlock is in rehab.





	1. No choice

The door to St. Mary's closed with a firm  _ clank _ behind him. The walls, like in all the other places like this one he'd been to, were white with a touch of light colours here and there. They were obviously trying to make the place somewhat welcoming for its 'guests' as the brochure said. If asked however, Sherlock thought the word 'prisoner' or 'inmate' was in many ways more accurate. He'd said as much to his dearest brother who had thrown him there out of concern for his health. He was past the age of having his brother rule his life and every single aspect of it. What a disappointment. What a failure it was for a grown man of 37 that his older sibling kept interfering in his private matters.

Mycroft had left him very little choice in the matter. What a humiliation it had been, it was to be put in such a place again. After all, it could not have happened under worse circumstances: John marrying and leaving for his sex holiday, and abandoning him definitely, not to mention that a press pundit was growing more threatening by the day, menacing to expose John.


	2. Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a phone call.

John was having a drink while having a quick look at his mail. Most of it was just junk and bills. Mary was upstairs, unpacking both their bags. He plugged his phone to charge it since the battery had died on the plane. When the charge was strong enough, he noticed he had a voicemail. The sight of that particular number made his stomach twist. Mycroft's personal line. John put his glass down and dialed his voicemail number to hear what it was about. As always, the man's voice was calm and distant, as haughty as always and using an official tone in an unnecessary way.   
John's knees gave up and he fell  on the couch. What had happened? He replayed the message a second time to let the information sink in. Apparently, Sherlock had fallen off the wagon again and was now in "the appropriate place to treat people with his kind of demons" according to Mycroft. Rehab then. God. John knew Sherlock had been to dark places before but never really asked about it. He trusted the man to have learnt his lessons and to be more responsible by now. But damn, he couldn't even leave for a week and have a "normal" honeymoon, could he! Out of anger, John tore a piece of paper to jot down the address Mycroft had given. He hung up and yelled at Mary not to wait for him before picking up his jacket and rushing outside. He needed to see Sherlock now.


	3. Boredom and Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Sherlock.

Sat in his room _cell_ , Sherlock was becoming extremely bored. He had been here two days and nothing, nothing had happened. Not the slightest event whatsoever. The other guests _patients, inmates_ were as dull as bricks with no sense of anything, and absolutely nothing remotely interesting to say. Group talks were tedious and of an atrocious kind, as were group ‘activities’ though to a lesser degree. At least he could escape and pretend to do something while his brain was otherwise occupied.

_ Group activities. _ What was his brother thinking? He  _ knew _ how much Sherlock abhorred other people, stupid, boring animals to him. He even  _ shared  _ that opinion. As long as he could escape and not to have to interact with the other…  _ patients _ … it was bearable. He had done repetitive, boring tasks for a case before, he could do it again. Even if it wasn't  _ exactly  _ for a case this time. 

The other challenge here was that he was completely isolated. No one had come to visit him - nor would. Mycroft Holmes was not the kind to pay visits to a suffering sibling and he certainly would not have told anyone of his…what was the word Mycroft had used?  _ Predicament.  _ Mycroft British Government and King of Understatement Holmes. 

Earlier today he had been told that he had to make friends with his fellow patients  _ Friends.  _ He didn't have friends. Either they had abandoned him  _ John  _ or didn't know _ John.  _

He could hear footsteps in the corridor as well as the faint sound of a conversation. He thought he could distinguish two voices. He was about to speculate on who could be visiting  _ him _ when the door to his room sprung open to reveal an angry John Watson. 

The nurse led them both into a long corridor where their feet echoed until they reached a door cell at the end. The nurse turned the keys on the lock and opened the door for John to go in and reminded him he had half an hour. John stepped inside and his eyes fell on Sherlock. He looked so weak. Thinner than before and eyes puffy like John had never seen them before. His hair was a mess and he wasn’t even shaved. He was wearing St-Mary’s white pyjamas uniform and looked at John fearfully.


	4. First contact.

Sherlock's room had a window obviously - he would have gone mad otherwise, no matter that it could only be opened in a very limited fraction - and when the nurse opened the door the sun outside reflected into John’s blond hair. Sherlock however was not struck by John's face but by the look he was showing - disappointment, anger and fear underlying his every facial movement. A more thorough observation of John’s face would have told him that none of these were in fact really directed towards him. The anguish he had been and was in at being abandoned, however, had left him unsure of everything, starting with the worth he held in other people's _John’s_ eyes.

The noise of the door being locked up behind John left them in a heavy silence. John swallowed, still looking at his friend. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! What happened?”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. ‘I'm sure Mycroft let you know what happened, John. What else could you possibly want to know?’

‘It’s not funny Sherlock, not this time!’

‘I didn't say it was funny,’ mumbled Sherlock. ‘You know what I mean! We were talking no more than a few days ago and everything was fine… _You_ were fine! And yes, of course Mycroft called me. Left me a message saying you were here. We just came back this afternoon.”

‘Bored,’ answered Sherlock. He immediately saw that this wasn't the kind of answer that John was expecting, so he elaborated. He had no idea precisely why John was angry, but it was certainly the furthest idea from his mind to upset him more. ‘I was bored without you. And I - I knew I would continue being bored now that you have Mary,’ he confessed.

“Now that I have Ma…” John was stunned. How could Sherlock have even thought that any woman - any one, for that matter - could come between them. What they shared together was so much more than that. He was married. A contract. He had risked his life for Sherlock and was still ready to do so. Mary was ...nice. A way to cope with the endless void the detective had left two years before. It was a way to get a grasp back at life when nothing had made sense anymore to John. Sherlock on the other hand was his very reason to live.

John huffed and ran a hand through his now too long hair in frustration.

“Sherlock… Me being married won’t change anything… You and I will still work together on cases you know. We’ll still spend time together and share things… I haven’t let you down!”

‘Don't shout. You asked a question, I simply answered. Things won't hardly be the same now though, will they?’ asked Sherlock in a resigned way. ‘You do have everything that you could possibly want’

“What are you even talking about? You’re bored? You put yourself in that state because you’re bored? That’s insane Sherlock, you could have died you moron!”

‘I fail to see how that is a problem. Drugs provide me with distraction enough to forget that I'm…bored. Anyway you were on a sex holiday, I couldn't go solve crimes.’

“Distraction? Of course you could, you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes! You were solving crimes way before I came along!”

‘I was, wasn't I? Something must have changed,’ he said. ‘So nice of you to take some time to see me, John,’ he added after a pause.

John sighed deeply and took a second to think. He didn’t want to snap at his friend. The man was obviously depressed and going on like this would only make Sherlock dig his heels.

He looked into his eyes with concern. “Come on, Sherlock, you know I will always make some time for you, no matter what.”

Sherlock only shrugged. He needed something to happen. Not something necessarily dangerous, although it would definitely improve his mood. He didn't see the slightest concern in John's eyes and found that his words did not entirely ring true.

‘While I appreciate you trying to maintain a good friend’s façade, John, I do have to tell you that there are few things worse to me than _pity_ , especially coming from you.’

John was offended. Pity. That’s what Sherlock thought of his friendship then? - No, he shouldn’t take it personally, the man’s judgement was obviously biased by the drugs and withdrawal. John needed some air to think. He tried to remain calm, cleared his throat and said. “Very well. I think we both need some time to cool off. But I’m not giving up.” He got up and banged on the door to call the nurse in charge.


	5. Coffee and Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Lestrade, here to help.

Later that day, John was looking at his watch, waiting for Greg Lestrade with two cups of coffee in his paper bag. He had texted the Detective Inspector a few moments after leaving St Mary. He knew that a bored Sherlock was impossible to deal with, therefore, he needed to keep that beautiful brain busy to be able to communicate with his former flatmate. Surely, Greg had some cold cases lying around in his drawers and would be happy to give Sherlock a hand. He had known Sherlock before John’s time and had already witnessed the man in that kind of distress before so he would likely sympathise and offer his help.

‘Sorry, John. I was kept at the office. Said you wanted to see me about Sherlock? What's his lordship done, now?’ he asked, taking the cup of coffee John was offering him. ‘Thank you for that, by the way. Had a rough day. It's always good to see a friend in these cases. Lucky it's sunny today,’ he added, gesturing at a nearby bench, silently asking John if they should sit there. John nodded and sat next to him. 

“Well, as you know, I’m just back from Monaco with Mary, and Mycroft left me some message explaining that he had his dear brother locked up in some rehab facility center,” said John before sipping his coffee. “Went to see him as soon as I got the message, of course. He got caught right in time apparently. I can’t believe he’d done something that stupid Greg, he was doing so great when we left...” John tapped his right foot on the ground in frustration.

‘Has he? What… what could have happened? In such a short time, I mean?’ Greg paused for a moment, sipping his coffee, looking in the distance, purposely not at John. ‘You sound like you had a worse day than I had. How can I help?’ he asked, knowing that there should be something he could do to help, otherwise John would not have gone to him that urgently. Of course, they were friends, all three of them, he knew that. But there had to be something he  _ could _ do. “Well you were there before, you know… When he was using. How was it like?” 

Greg took a large breath in as well as a huge sip on his coffee. ‘Well, it was… he was not in the best shape. Still smart, obviously, but not as… how would  _ you _ say? Blindingly brilliant. He could still help on cases, his brain was still functioning better than most people’s - yeah, of course he would, I know,’ he added throwing a side glance at John. ‘Well, that's… I mean, that's when he was not too heavily using. Because then he would be… yeah, I guess you could say hopeless. Couldn't think straight and was all over the place. I saw him crash a few times. It wasn't pretty, but Mycroft always seemed to know when that would happen and intervene to get his brother back on track. What… what else do you need? There has to be more information I can give you, but… What?’ he asked John, earnest concern in his eyes, worry and a desire to help so evidently sketched on his face that anyone could read it. “I see… Well he didn't seem too bad this morning so I thought the better way to keep him busy would be to bring him a nice case, you know… Maybe you have some unsolved ones somewhere? I’m sure it would help him Greg, you know how he is when he’s bored… I don’t think it is as bad as Mycroft seems to think but if he did relapse, it is because he has nothing to think about, no goal to reach, nothing, he’s just being locked in there waiting all day, even I would go crazy down there!” 

‘Yeah,’ Greg agreed, ‘I've been told that rehab could be boring. And difficult, if…but you're probably right, you know, he probably relapsed because he got bored. Sounds really like him. Not that he's not been used to dealing with boredom but, you know. With so many changes, I suppose something like that was bound to happen,’ he added quickly, avoiding to make eye contact with John. ‘Anyway,’ he said after a beat of silence. ‘Unsolved cases, you said. Yeah, of course there are. And yes, in the plural. Enough to keep Sherlock busy for some time. I'll need to have a word with the Chief Superintendent first. They still haven't got back to completely trust Sherlock after the Rich Brook debacle. But yeah, of course. You can count on me, I'll do what I can to bring these cases to Sherlock. Unless you'd rather bring them yourself?’ he asked, taking a sip of his coffee only to realise that the cup was already empty. 

Knowing that something was in motion to help his friend untied a knot in John’s stomach.

“That really would help, Greg, thanks! I knew I could count on you.” Said John with a smile.

“Oh I’ll visit him tomorrow so maybe I can pass at New Scotland Yard in the morning, it will be quicker and save you the trip. Even though I’m sure he’ll appreciate to see you whenever you can drop by, I’ll text you the address.” John finished his coffee and threw his paper cup in the bin nearby. It was always nice to talk to Greg and in that particular case John felt reassured to have his opinion. And the files, of course. ‘Of course, John. And yeah, please give me the address. I’m sure he must get lonely in there sometimes.’ A comfortable silence settled and the two men looked at people passing by and children feeding pigeons. ‘Well, John,’ said Greg as he stood up. ‘Always nice to talk to you. Don’t worry about those cases, I’ll give them to you. Tomorrow morning, right? I’ve got to get back, the wife is dropping the kids tonight. Bye, John!’ he exclaimed.


	6. Dejection.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored and John notices.  
> He vows to himself to do something against it.

Eyes closed, there still was a sort of light coming through his eyelids, but the silence around him had become more precise. Sounds were becoming clearer. In the distance, he perceived the  _ click-click-click  _ of someone, probably a nurse, walking around with a set of keys and the soft  _ thud  _ of a cane. An injured nurse was unlikely. He or she would have taken a sick leave, and he had not noticed anyone with a cane. The people he had come across here were dull and for some, desperate but certainly not violent. He could only hear the footsteps of one person, however. His inner voice told him to narrow his deduction down. Apart from a nurse or an orderly, who else could be walking with a set of keys and a cane? Ah. The director of the pr - facility, then. What could...she be doing down there? He focussed on the pace of the footsteps. Rapid, as if pressed by some event she had no control over and that she was not looking forward to . A meeting, then. A meeting not being held in her office? No. Something which wasn’t planned. She had been called because of something unexpected. Not drug related, not an OD. Given the strict rules here, it was almost impossible to smuggle any kind of drugs here - but nothing was ever completely impossible when humans were involved. What made an OD or anything else drug related impossible was that the  _ patients  _ here were too dumb to devise any worthwhile plan. 

An accident, then. Well, at least some things were happening around him. Not  _ to  _ him, however. But it still was something.  _ Why had Mycroft intervened before I could properly forget this whole wedding disaster?  _

Another set of footsteps. A familiar one, this time.  _ John. He was carrying something. Coming to the rescue of his pitiable friend. Good old Doctor Watson _ , he thought with irony.  _ Bring me something to take the boredom away.  _

Once they reached the right cell, Dr. Norbury picked up the heavy bundle of keys hanging at her belt, found the right one and proceeded to open the heavy metal door. John thanked her and the first thing he saw inside was Sherlock. He didn’t look much better than the day before, his eyes still red showed he hadn’t slept and his expression was as cold as it could be.

John sighed and entered the cell, hearing the door close right behind him. He tried to give his friend a small smile and nervously looked around the room. “So, have you slept a little?” He said hesitantly, unsure about how to break the ice.

‘What do you think, John?’ Sherlock asked in a bored, tired almost exhausted voice. He had of course been through much rougher times, but he had to admit that not sleeping when his brain was not occupied was particularly exhausting.‘No, I haven’t slept. This place is making me pace the room like a caged lion. My mind is rotting away. I need to distract myself. And I can see that you have come to my aid,’ he added, pointing approvingly towards the bundle of files John was holding, a small smile on his lips despite his exhaustion.

“Oh, right yes” Said John handing his friend the files. “Greg says hi. He might come visit you soon actually. We both thought that you could have a look at these cold cases he had in store…But apart from that, Have you eaten anything? I know this place isn’t probably a first class restaurant but you have to eat something if you want to get better and get out of here Sherlock.”

Sherlock briefly nodded then opened the first file. ‘I assume this was your idea? The files,’ he clarified. He rapidly skimmed through it and looked up to look at John. ‘Well?’

John shrugged. “Can’t you _ deduce _ it?” He said in a lower tone. He was wondering how long his friend would have to stay in that place.  _ A visit at the Diogenes Club is in order,  _ he thought. Hoping Mycroft would be in a good mood and would agree to see him without any appointment, although knowing the bastard, he would probably be aware of that visit before John himself, and that fact was only annoying.

‘Of course I can, John. My brain is  _ rotting _ . It’s not  _ rotten _ . It needs something to keep all its energy and thoughts on a proper course, however. If it doesn’t - but it’s not a concern anymore, since you brought me these. Thank you,’ he added heartfully. ‘Thank Gavin for me too, would you? I assume he went through some trouble to get them,’ he supplied as an afterthought.

“Will do. And don’t mention it, if that’s what it takes to keep you from insanity it’s a small price to pay, right?” He added looking at his hands.”So… Any idea how long they’re gonna keep you? You must have an idea from your previous… experiences I assume…”

‘Yes, you are quite right. Were I to stay too long, insanity would certainly be a cause for serious worry. But I…  _ hope _ I won't. However, there is no way for me to really know. I expect they'll keep me here for a shorter time than before. Just like so many other things, it depends on my brother's good will. If he ever decides to stop putting his nose in other people’s affairs, that is,’ he concluded in a dejected voice.

“ _ Shorter than before _ ...which was how long exactly?” Asked John hesitantly looking up at his friend and hoping he wasn’t too indiscreet. Sherlock rarely mentioned that period and all John knew about it he found out by Mycroft. Which was bad enough given the very nature of the man. John knew he was walking on eggshells here but if he had to do this for Sherlock he needed to know where this was going. ‘Exactly… I couldn't say,’ he replied. ‘Not precisely,’ he amended, looking ashamed. ‘I can tell you it was months,’ he offered. ‘It's… not really the sort of memory I choose to save. It's all a bit of a blur. You should ask my dear brother, if you need more precision,’ he added. ‘John. I'm sorry I can't be more precise,’ he finished, looking at John and not at the floor anymore. 

“It’s… fine Sherlock, it’s all fine.” Said John sheepishly. “I find it understandable that you don’t want to dwell on it.” He sniffed. “Not the best memories I assume.” He bit the inside of his cheeks not sure what to add. The silence was suddenly becoming heavy in the room. He cleared his throat adding “Is there anything else I could bring you? Your violin maybe?” He asked, not sure his friend would be allowed the instrument.

Pleased that John changed the subject, Sherlock let out a small breath of relief. Despite his honesty, these memories were not ones he was particularly fond of. His eyes lit up at the mention of his violin. He looked at John more intently. ‘It would be very nice of you if you could bring it indeed. If you  _ could _ . They won't let any of their -  _ us _ have anything that could potentially be used in a harmful way,’ he finished with disappointment and resentment at such a stupid rule which would certainly not apply to his case.  


	7. At the Diogenes Club.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John insists that Sherlock needs something to do.

John was waiting in an empty room. He had arrived at the Diogenes Club asking for Mycroft Holmes at the reception and had been led here in a complete silence, as the tradition required and was starting to wonder if the wait was a part of Mycroft’s game. He looked at the paintings on the wall. The room was luxurious. He finally decided to sit on the sofa. A look at his phone told him Greg was asking if Sherlock was pleased with the cold cases. John was about to compose his answer when someone entered the room.

‘Doctor Watson. An unexpected surprise,’ Mycroft Holmes said in a haughty voice as ways of greeting. ‘What can I do for my brother?’ he asked, immediately reading on John where he had been and who had prompted his presence in his office. He knew that John did not particularly enjoy being there, and the only other occurrence he had been was the day prior to Sherlock's departure from London two years before. ‘I imagine you have seen his new quarters. An adequate place for people in his condition,’ he added as he saw John's jaw clench at the mention of St Mary's. John was starting to boil over. But he knew Mycroft was trying to trigger him, the man was practically living to annoy his surroundings, it was just how he was, so the soldier tried to breathe and calm down before he spoke.

“Good day to you too, Mycroft. As always, you’re perfectly right, and I come to you asking for a favour. No need to play, I’m sure you already figured what it is. You’re a busy man after all and I wouldn’t want to take more of your time that needed.” John tightened his lips and waited to see if his new approach would be more profitable than letting his anger explode.

Mycroft let escape a barely audible sigh. ‘As I am certain you are aware, neither me nor my brother can read minds despite sharp observation skills,’ Mycroft answered.

John tried not to roll his eyes at that last sentence. Holmes really had a thing for the dramatic, no doubt on that. “Of course not, Mycroft, but I’m sure you’ve _ deduced _ the reason of my visit, haven’t you?” 

‘I know that Sherlock abhors boredom and that you are acting on your caring side: you evidently want to spare Sherlock the boredom of the place he is in. I do not doubt that he has made it evident that he was averse to the facility, he  _ does _ like to be dramatic. No, I will not intercede in my brother’s or your favour just so he can fiddle the time away on his violin,’ he said in a tone that bore no discussion. ‘As you seem unaware that these facilities have the same procedures and recommendation, I shall tell them to you,’ he added in a disdainful voice. His words were polite, but the tone he had used did not hide his contempt to a man who had proven to make his brother worse than ever, or had in the very least awoken that possibility. ‘Boredom is beneficial to drug addicts,’ he said. ‘There is no other way to say that. Sherlock  _ is _ a drug addict, and drug addicts never completely recover. When they are in isolation centres, as Sherlock is at the moment, being bored or having nothing to do is essential. It forces them to reflect on their actions and the decisions which led them to their predicament,’ he explained to John slowly and patronizingly. He observed John for a few seconds before returning his eyes to the files open on his desk. ‘I do hope that you understand that for Sherlock’s sake I cannot interfere in any capacity,’ he added. He did not add it out loud, but Mycroft was confident that his brother had not become...fond...of another... _ goldfish _ .  _ His sanity depends on you acting to prevent it from becoming brittle and break.  _

John cleared his throat while trying to put his words wisely. 

“On that point I disagree with you. Your brother has absolutely nothing to do. He  **is** locked in a tiny cell and as a doctor, I strongly recommend keeping him busy. He  **is** an addict alright, but keeping him on the edge like this will only make his cravings worse. I don’t know how much that clinic is charging you but in my opinion it is a complete scam. Sherlock needs to be active, to feels he has control over his own life, that’s the only way for him to keep his demons locked.” -whatever they are- he thought. “They need to distract him, anyway they can, or as soon as they’ll release him, he’ll go straight ahead to the first dealer around to make that thing in his head stop, I guarantee you.” 

‘The opinion you are giving is not that of a doctor specialised in treating addicts. There is no cause for you to worry, Doctor Watson. He will not and I will personally see to it. If it would put your mind at ease, I imagine I could give a message to the team in charge of Sherlock’s...case,’ he added in a long-suffering tone, making clear that what he had offered to do would cost him an enormous amount of involvement. 

John’s shoulders relaxed at the idea his friend’s treatment would improve. He was surprised to see the Iceman giving up that easily but perhaps he had misjudged the man. Sherlock was his brother after all and maybe the whole Holmes coldness was just an act. Mycroft was a good actor, very much like his brother. It made perfect sense in the end. John was pleased to convince himself.

“That would be the thing to do, believe me. And as your brother’s friend and colleague, I sincerely thank you.” John said with a nod. He made his way to the door and turned around one last time. “Goodbye Mycroft.”


	8. Veiled admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays his violin, at last, and some of the boredom melts away.  
> Some things remain the same.

John was back at St-Mary. He was eager to tell Sherlock the good news. He had picked up the violin at Baker Street earlier and was carrying it in its case. The nurse opened the door to the cell and let him in.

At the sound of the creaking door, Sherlock looked up. He knew it was John who was visiting him - he had recognised the tread of his footsteps in the corridor. His body moved to greet him and thank him again for visiting him, but he immediately noticed that something was not as it should be. John was keeping his hands behind his back.

‘You’re hiding something. There is no need to pretend otherwise. What is it?’ he asked, in a mix of expectation and fear.

“Hello to you too” Said John with a small smile. “That’s a good deduction, I am hiding something. But I’m sure you can guess - well, not guess, you never guess, right?”

‘Yes, yes. Give it to me, now,’ Sherlock said impatiently. ‘Please,’ he added, knowing that John was very insistent on him using these types of words. Politeness. A waste of time.

“Right,” said John handing his friend the precious case. He was happy to be able to help. Sherlock had seemed so miserable during his last visit that John had hoped this would improve things for him a little. The detective played his long fingers across the case, caressing it softly before opening it. Even if he knew what it contained, opening it and get to the musical instrument inside was always a special moment. He touched the violin lightly, reverently and took it to position himself in front of John, bow in his right hand. His eyes were shiny with contained emotion, and he started playing for a few minutes, not minding terribly that his violin had become slightly out of tune. For now, he  _ really _ needed to play. For John. To thank John, whose eyes he never looked away from.

The melody was unfamiliar yet very pleasant to hear. Sherlock seemed lost in it. It was such a relief to see him being himself again. Maybe he would recover faster this way. John wished he could stay with him in that cell forever. Soon the short improvised piece came to an end. ‘Thank you, John,’ he said, his eyes still locked with John’s.

John was staring back at his friend. “That’s the least I could do, really.” He said folding his arms nervously. “So, what about the cold cases? Solved them all have you?”

Sherlock could tell that John was starting to become uncomfortable under his gaze and this would absolutely not do. He disengaged eye contact but kept fiddling with his violin so as to maintain a tolerable distance between them. ‘Of course. Painfully obvious, all of them. And with all that time on my hands...It’s hardly a deduction, John. I’m sure you can do better. But it was a nice distraction, that much I’ll concede,’ he replied. ‘How have you been? I haven’t seen you around these last few days. I trust everything is alright?’ John licked his lips nervously “I’m fine. Just you know… Settling in...with Mary.” In reality, these few days had been a true nightmare. Since they’ve been married, Mary had completely changed and John was seriously starting to regret marrying her. The nice girl he had met a few months ago had suddenly turned into a selfish shrew who kept trying to take control over John’s life.

Sherlock listened to John and the hesitation in his voice as he spoke about settling in with Mary spoke volumes. He did not believe a word of that statement, but was not about to argue with John. He simply looked at him, one eyebrow raised in a manner which said that he thought John was disguising the truth. ‘Boring, then,’ he replied in a mocking tone. ‘Well, not as boring as my days have been, I imagine. Really John, I cannot thank you enough for bringing me my violin,’ he added after a short pause. ‘It was really much needed in that silent, dreadful, horrendous place.’

“No problem,” answered John who knew how it was to be confined in an endless wait, not knowing how long it would last. Sherlock’s situation reminded him of a battle he had endured back in Afghanistan. He and his men were ambushed, waiting for the enemy. It had lasted for days. So of course, circumstances were very different, but John had an idea about what it was to wait.

“I couldn’t possibly let your brain melt out of exercise could I?” asked John with a small smile.

‘Quite right,’ Sherlock smirked before he proceeded picking the strings on his violin. ‘It will need a bit of tuning, however. I can’t play properly with the state it’s in. I’ve been...detained for too long.’ 

“Oh really?” Asked John. “How long has it been since last time you’ve played?”

‘How long have you been married again?’ retorted Sherlock.

John’s left eyebrow raised on its own at that last question. “A month. So you haven’t played since then? I thought… Nevermind.”

‘What did you think, John? Of course I did not play. I had too many thoughts on my mind to focus,’ he added in a somewhat curt tone despite the candidness of his words.

“Ah alright then. I don’t know, I mean I know you like to play now and then… And it seems… rather unusual for you to stay that long without doing so, nothing more.”

‘Let it go, John. It doesn’t matter.’

“Alright, alright, forget I said anything,’ John replied, raising both hands defensively.

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock said without any further explanation. He placed his violin under his chin, plucked the strings and turned the pegs. And plucked the strings again. He repeated this action a few times before taking his bow and playing a classic, easy melody.

The doctor looked at the other man while he played, not sure what he should do. Now that the instrument was there, he just had to leave. No point in staying. He left the room and went back to Mary. Sherlock felt movement behind him and heard John walking away toward the door as silently as he could. He was not quite certain why he did not do or say anything to stop him, he had assumed that John would have stayed with him.  _ He says nothing has changed, yet here he goes back to his spouse. _ Closing his eyes, he continued playing, his song becoming sorrowful as John left, his steps echoing in the corridor.


	9. Sparks

Days passed and nothing ever changed. He would continue visiting regularly, visibly enjoying spending time with him, despite the dingy state of the room. The lack of verbal communication had never been an issue for them - Sherlock  _ had _ introduced himself as someone who  _ sometimes didn’t talk for days on end. _ A chair was brought every time he came, and taken away when he left. 

The room was always the same, there was no small pretend comfort here, no cushions with hideous patterns he had not chosen, no uncomfortable furniture, no boring topics of discussion to avoid awkward silences. Despite the gloominess of the place and the less than recommendable people in there aside from Sherlock, John  _ liked _ this place. More to the point, he liked being with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock would notice more and more often, as John became less and less subtle, his reluctance to return to his house in the suburbs. He started staying for longer periods of time, sometimes bringing Sherlock new sheets of violin music he could practise on until their next meeting. He had become less abrasive than he had been at first as days passed and turned into weeks. A silent relationship of sorts was agreed to, and Sherlock was enjoying his time here with John. They simply spent time together, sometimes talking but in silence more often than not. Sherlock would play the violin pieces he’d practised to please John and to occupy his mind, basking in his undisguised and unabashed praise at the end of each of his performance.

Sometimes, Sherlock caught a spark in John’s eyes, the same he knew was in his own. Their eyes would lock for a moment, tension rising as they were both aware of the possibilities that could lie before them.

And then John would close his eyes, shake his head sadly and return to the dreary suburbs where he lived.


	10. Ignition

 

Often, as John would come home back to Mary, he was greeted with a hug that lasted a bit too long, displaying a tenderness that was unlike her. He had spent enough time with Sherlock to notice that she was acting as a suspicious partner. He had taken to start lying to her as to where he was going after Sherlock had got out of rehab. 

Mary had never showed much concern that Sherlock had been committed to a drug rehabilitation centre, unless John prompted her. But even he could tell she was not overly distressed by the fact. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Mary was relieved that Sherlock was not as much in John’s life as he used to.

She grew more and more suspicious as John came back later and later, often pretexting going out for drinks with mates, meeting with Greg whom he was still helping despite Sherlock’s incapacity at the moment. 

John resented his boring and trite life in the suburbs, his need for danger uncared for, his best friend absent from his life - Mary had implicitly told him to stop seeing him, at first. Not too long after, she stated it as plainly as could be, almost to the point of giving him an ultimatum. An  _ ultimatum _ ! For seeing his best friend! Sherlock might have never said anything against Mary out of respect for John, but Mary certainly didn’t show the same courtesy. 

‘Mary came by earlier today,’ Sherlock has told him evenly. John had detected an inflexion in his voice that bore no good news. ‘She told me to stay away from you,’ he added. ‘That I was interfering with your marriage and your mood.’

John had exploded in a fit of rage. ‘How... _ dare _ she come to you and  _ demand  _ such a thing! Ridiculous!’ he shouted as he kicked in the nearest piece of furniture. ‘It’s bad enough that she forbids me to see my best friend, but to actually come to you to…’ He cut himself short and took great care in controlling his breathing. ‘I will have a word with her,’ he declared. ‘Now. I’m sorry, I’ve got to deal with that right away,’ he said, still fuming but somewhat less. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock.’

 

Later that night, Mary and John had words. It would be more accurate to say that Mary had words at John. Shouts, and shrieks, calling him a terrible liar, a dreadful husband, a cheater.

‘Mary, how many times…!’ John tried to explain, again, that everything Mary was saying was simply thoughts she was harbouring for no logical reason. 

‘Logic!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s one of his favourite words, and he’s drilled it into you, hasn’t he? What are you going to say next, John? That I am insane? A psychopath? Ah no, that’s your boyfriend. Can’t have both your legal wife and adulterous partner be psychopaths, that wouldn't do, would it?!’ she shrieked, throwing the nearest objects to John. ‘Sleep on the sofa, John. I can’t handle your lying face in the same bed as I,’ she told him coldly as she took to the stairs to their bedroom.

John was taken aback. He had never suspected that Mary could be so  _ possessive, jealous, cold, callous, violent. _

_ Ping! _

‘And turn your phone off! I can hear it from upstairs!’ she shouted.

John did lower the volume, but there was no way he was going to be controlled by anyone. 

He had received an e-mail from  [ deusex@holmes.co.uk ](mailto:deusex@holmes.co.uk) . If Mycroft contacted him, matters were surely of extreme importance - and his brother was certainly still holding a grudge against him for putting him in that dreadful place against his will, rightly so.

 

_ Doctor Watson, _

_ It has come to my attention that several packages of dubious nature have been planted in my brother’s flat.  _

_ Please find attached the following pictures ensuring my brother’s innocence in the matter.  _

_ I leave you to deal with it with tact and diplomacy. _

 

_ Mycroft Holmes. _

 

He clicked on the files to view the images Mycroft had provided him. CCTV stills showed a feminine figure, rather short,  _ about the same size as Mary _ , he reflected, entering 221b.

The time stamp at the bottom of the picture was 2.37pm. 

Another still showed a close-up of the person who indeed was Mary. She was holding a bag in her hand.  _ No, several bags _ . Another close-up revealed that the bags could not contain anything other than drugs.  _ Jesus!  _ He was now seeing the interior of the flat, where she disposed of four of the bags - the timestamp being between 2.38pm and 2.48pm.  _ She had to be sure Sherlock would not notice anything was amiss _ , he reflected bitterly. Fury boiled inside him.  _ Fuck tact and diplomacy!  _

 

_ Mycroft,  _

_ Received your e-mail. Will deal with this immediately.  _

_ John. _

 

Breathing heavily, he put his shoes back on, donned his jacket, took his bag and left.  _ I’m not leaving a word. She finds me gone in the morning, she’d better understand there are things that are  _ _ not _ _ done. _

He called a cab, and headed straight to Baker Street, no matter the higher fees at night. Mycroft would cover it if need be.


	11. Dealing with the evidence.

 

John stumped the seventeen steps to the flat, barging through the unlock door to the living room. He was livid. 

‘John?’ Sherlock asked, worry written clear as day on his face. ‘Has something happen?’

‘Mary,’ he breathed.

‘Sit down,’ he gestured to the sofa. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea. Then you’ll tell me what happened,’ he offered.

‘Thank you, but I have to deal with what she did  _ now _ . I suspect I’ll need something stronger than tea. And so will you,’ he said, before getting to work and uncovering the bags he’d clearly seen her hide in Sherlock’s living room. He was growing angrier and angrier by the minute, every bag uncovered set his stomach in a queasy state. Sherlock was appalled. 

‘John - ‘ he started, unsure of what to say. 

‘Don’t. After. Let me finish. And get to pouring us whiskey. Situation warrants it.’

‘You’ve been talking with my brother,’ Sherlock remarked.

‘And good thing I did,’ John replied, walking straight to the bathroom. Sherlock followed him at a distance, unsure of what exactly was happening. Evidently he was retrieving bags. Full of drugs. And he had no idea how they had come to be there. He had a terrible sensation in his stomach and feared John would severe their friendship there and then, after a talk and storming off.

He heard tinkering in the bathroom. Under the bathroom sink? Was that plumbing he was working on? 

John exited the bathroom a short while after, sweating, his livid face grown red from anger.

‘Now. Those drinks?’ he demanded, a little forcefully, disappointment and hurt in his eyes, as he placed four bags on the coffee table.

‘Here,’ Sherlock answered shakily. ‘John…?’ he asked tentatively after a brief moment. John had satf down on the sofa. He imitated him, sensing that an important discussion would be imminent. 

‘I don’t -’

‘I know, Sherlock.’ 

‘But how…?’ The perceptive detective had not noticed anything. John heaved a sigh, and took a large sip of his whiskey.

‘Mary,’ he said. Sherlock did not say anything. ‘She came into the flat while you were away. Planted these four bags. Mycroft has the street and the living room under surveillance, as you know.’ Sherlock nodded, encouraging John to continue. He still was not quite sure to understand everything that was involved here. ‘Sherlock. She  _ broke _ into your flat. She  _ planted _ evidence,  _ drugs,  _ for Christ’s sake! in your living room.’ He took another large sip of his whiskey. ‘She planted that here. I can only assume in the hope you’d find them, use them, and I find you OD’ing, or worse.’ He put his glass down and put his head in his hands, pulling at his hair.

‘John, you are distressed. Why? You know I wouldn’t -’

‘That’s precisely the problem!’ he exclaimed. ‘That, and the fact that Mary is ...controlling, possessive, paranoid, manipulative...and desperate I stay with her. Under her thumb,’ he admitted, defeated. He had never voiced the extent of his life with Mary. Or lack of.

‘I still don’t -’

‘She told me in no uncertain terms that she’d do anything to prevent me from stopping to be with her. She told you so herself.’ 

Sherlock took a calm breath in. ‘How did you know?’ he asked, coming closer to John, but not sitting next to him. He was not calm enough for any kind of contact.

‘Mycroft. He sent me everything I needed to find it all,’ he said, voice breaking. ‘I thought I could carry on, pretend, in the hope it’d get better, that it was all pregnancy hormones making her so...different from the woman I lo-  _ thought _ I loved,’ he confessed. ‘She threatened you. She threatened to bring you down. She threatened our friendship. How could I…?’

‘John. Do you want to sleep here tonight? You’ll feel better in the morning.’

‘You haven’t drank your whiskey,’ John noted absently.

‘You’ve brought a bag with you. I assume you planned on sleeping here tonight.’

John looked sheepishly at him. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Of course, John. Of course, it is,’ he replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. John smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said, taking the bags and heading to the bathroom. ‘Dispose of that. We don’t need that here,’ he declared resolutely.

‘No, we don’t,’ Sherlock agreed, as he sat down on the sofa, listening to the sound of the bags being ripped open and the flush of the toilet. 

John reappeared, much calmer, his phone in his hand. 

‘Just texted your brother. Told him the issue had been dealt with. But that he should leave the flat under surveillance.’

‘As much as I hate saying so, he was right in doing so.’

‘Sherlock?’

‘Hm?’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to come back there. Do you think I could…?’

Sherlock gave him a soft smile. ‘Sleep on it, John. But you know you are always welcome here. It  _ is _ your home,’ he declared.

‘Thank you,’ John replied lifting his glass to Sherlock, and emptying it, as Sherlock took a sip. He was evidently not as distraught as John. He smiled at him.

‘Of course.’


	12. You see but you do not observe.

Sherlock was up, clad in his silky blue Derek Rose dressing gown, violin in hand when John descended the stairs.

‘Morning.’

‘M’

‘Here,’ said Sherlock giving him a glass of water with painkillers. ‘You won’t feel better right away, but it’ll help. You did drink a bit too fast last night,’ he chuckled lightly.

‘With good reason,’ John grumbled. 

Sherlock closed the curtains, aware that light was not welcome when in the state John was in, and put his violin down. He was about to light a cigarette when he realised that the smell would likely inconvenience John, and he didn’t want that. On the other hand, if he felt sick he might be better. He chose to err on the side of caution and went to his bedroom where he opened the window. 

 

‘Sherlock?’ he heard John’s slightly slurred voice calling. ‘Where’s my chair? It’s gone.’

Sherlock re-appeared, quickly closing the door behind him, cigarette unfinished.

‘Oh. It isn't gone. It just isn't  _ there _ anymore,’ he replied in an attempt to sound casual but even John’s hungover saw past it for what: Sherlock was reluctant to meet John’s eyes, a coy look on his face.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well yes. I can see that. Care to tell me where it is then?’ he asked drinking avidly the glass of water Sherlock had given him.

‘Oh, it... Well, I had to send it to be repaired. An experiment gone a bit…’ Sherlock’s voice faded and a tight silence settled for a few beats, Sherlock unable to bear the lie he just said.

‘Right,’ replied John in the crisp voice he used when he didn’t buy into whatever lie Sherlock was feeding him. He poured himself another glass of water.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He never did that, and this certainly caught John’s attention.

‘Well, I did move it to a safer place,’ he mumbled. The question in John’s eyes was demanding him to elaborate. ‘I moved It to my bedroom,’ he admitted.

John must not have been that hungover as he managed to express his disbelief by raising his eyebrows. ‘Safer than  _ here, _ where your brother has his eyes and ears day and night? It's just a chair Sherlock, not the queen's jewelry!,’ he added more vehemently that he meant to. Realisation dawned on him. ‘To your- ... Oh. ok…,’ he replied weakly, not quite sure what to make of that new information. A wild fantasy about him being in the chair springs to his mind. In the chair, in Sherlock's room. Watching him sleep. He shakes the thought away.

‘To my bedroom, yes,’ Sherlock confirms, but does not dwell on the subject of John's chair in his room. Too many things. Too many memories. Heartbreak. Pain. Loss. ‘Don't you feel it's safer without Mycroft being… well, Mycroft?’ 

“Not sure what you mean by that,” John replies, still unsure how to react.

‘Of course you do,’ Sherlock huffs. ‘Prying eyes. Such an invasion. Anyway. You might want me to put it back there, I suppose. Easier to talk  _ like we used to. _ ’

‘Your brother won’t change so we’d better get used to it don’t you think? He did give us a favour, with his surveillance…’ he added recalling last night’s events. ‘Do you need a hand? To put it back here, I mean.’

 

Sherlock thought briefly, and remembered that there were things in his bedroom he’d rather have not John see. Blades, disinfectant, compresses, sticking plaster. ‘I'll be fine. Thank you.’ 

“Are you sure? Come on, I’ll help you move the thing back,” he replied, starting to head through the corridor leading to Sherlock’s bedroom.

‘Yes, I'm sure, John,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Thank you for offering, but it'll be fine. I've done it once I should be able to do it again,’ he declared sarcastically. ‘You don't need to,’ he added grabbing his arm, voice faltering as John continued to head to his bedroom door. ‘You can… you can help when it's out if you  _ really _ want to help,’ he conceded. 

John stopped and observed. He looked Sherlock right in the eye.

‘Sherlock, why is your door closed? You  _ never _ close your door…’

‘Because I don't want prying eyes to follow my every Goddamn move. And for the pleasure of hearing you ask stupid questions,’ he lashed out, panic rising. In less than a heartbeat he had realised that this last sentence was a bit not good. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lash out. I won't be a minute,’ he said as he entered his bedroom swiftly, closing the door behind him.

John rolled his eyes. ‘Prying eyes, really? Do you hear yourself talking, you live alone for God’s sake! It’s **_me_ ** , not one of your brother’s minion!’ John exclaimed.

 

‘Quite right,’ Sherlock shouted back from his room. ‘It is a habit I've taken. To avoid Mycroft’s and his minions prying eyes’, he added, panting as he pushed John's chair back into the living room. John was looking at him from his own chair.

 

When Sherlock’s bedroom door opened, John’s nostrils were filled with a strong smell of iron. He dismissed it, thinking it must be one of Sherlock’s weird experiment and went back to wait in the living room. Sherlock was back, struggling to push the red chair back where it belonged. John got up and helped him a bit then resumed his glass and sat in the said chair that was his. How comfortable he was. Like he was back and nothing had changed. Like he didn’t had a wife waiting for him to come back in the morning. Who probably wasn’t.

 

‘Silly of you, really, to think you were not welcome. Feel better now?’ he asked John as he settled in his own armchair.

‘Much. Ta.’

‘We need to talk about Mary.’

‘Must we?’ John asked, uncomfortable at the mere evocation of his…wife.

‘It appears essential if you’re resuming lodging here with me,’ Sherlock reasoned. 

‘I think I told you everything last night. She can’t be trusted. I can’t trust her. I don’t want anything to do with her any longer. I’ve had as much of her as I could take.’

‘And that’s saying a lot from a man who went to war and whose best friend is an addict who solves crimes to get high,’ Sherlock remarked.

‘Yes. I’ll deal with that, sooner rather than later. But first,’ he said, ‘I’m going to correct you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ John took a swift intake of breath that didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock. He was going to take a chance, he realised. John got up from his chair and walked to Sherlock’s. ‘I don’t like that you think yourself as my best friend. You’re much more than that to me,’ he said, looking him in the eye. ‘Always have been. Took me a while to realise it, but…’ He stopped talking and bent over Sherlock to put his lips on Sherlock’s. ‘No, Sherlock. You’re not my best friend.’

Sherlock was speechless and stunned. He recovered very quickly, however, as he pulled John on his lap, and returned the kiss, more forcefully than John’s tentative display had been. 

‘And it appears I am not yours either,’ Sherlock concluded, eyes sparkling.

‘Obviously.’


	13. Revelations and Resolution

John was still sitting in Sherlock’s lap, rejoicing in the kiss which became more and more heated. His hands trailed under Sherlock’s shirt.

‘Assume that’s ok?’

‘Evidently.’

But something didn’t feel right. He could feel discrepancies on Sherlock’s skin. He explored the skin with a different touch. The heat of the moment had been brought to a halt, and he was exploring him as a doctor. 

‘Sherlock. What are these?’ he asked, touching the broken skin.

‘What are you talking about?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Don’t play the idiot. Your skin...You displayed it enough for me to see there was nothing wrong with it. And these,’ he added, touching what could only be scar tissue, ‘are anything but nothing.’

‘It’s not important,’ Sherlock replied, trying to resume their former activity. 

‘No, Sherlock. Don’t dismiss it. Tell me,’ John insisted.

Sherlock heaved a sigh. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with. Not anymore.’

‘Sherlock.’ John’s voice was stern. Not angry, but disappointed.

‘Why did you do that to yourself?’

‘I - Why do you think?’ Sherlock retorted a forlorn look on his face. Sherlock’s face at his wedding came back to him. He had looked haunted. Crushed.

‘You suffered. You wanted to get rid of the pain. But it didn’t work. Not well enough. And you took to the drugs.’

Sherlock stayed silent. This was all the admission John needed. 

‘It was not boredom that pushed you there,’ he continued. ‘It was heartbreak,’ he concluded in horror. ‘Sherlock...I’m sorry. Show me?’ he asked, not as a doctor, not as a lover, but as remorseful friend. ‘It is my responsibility to keep you safe.’

‘I am perfectly safe. I know how to deal with  _ these _ , as you called them.’

‘Show me,’ John insisted, getting off of Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock sighed and took off his dressing gown. When he would have been wearing a worn t-shirt, he was now wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He took it off, revealing erratic patterns of scars, some deeper than others. Most were healed, but a few remained, still raw. None of them were bleeding.  _ Well that’s something, I suppose. _ John’s face had crumbled. He had never suspected Sherlock could feel so intensely. He closed the gap between them and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, the other resting on his arm.

‘You won’t need to do that ever again. Whatever happens, Sherlock. I. Am. Here,’ he declared solemnly, locking their eyes together. ‘Put your clothes back on, you’ll get chilly,’ he said, moving towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

‘No!’

‘Yes, Sherlock. I am going inside. If you and I are to have an intimate relationship, you’ll have to tell me when things like that cross your mind. Last night, we got rid of drugs. Yes, they had been planted here. But this, Sherlock,’ he said opening the bedroom, once again assailed by the smell of iron and disinfectant, ‘this has to stop. You’ve no reason to continue doing that. We need to get rid of the tools you used,’ he added entering the bedroom. The room was a mess, soiled sheets were strewn on the floor. Blades resting on his bedside table, disinfectant next to them.  _ At least he had the common sense of keeping things...somewhat clean _ , he thought to himself, slumping his shoulders. ‘We will keep the disinfectant and the sterile compresses I’m sure you have in there. They can always come in handy. But we’ll keep them out of the bedroom.’

Sherlock looked properly chastened, and ashamed. ‘John, I-’

‘No. Sherlock. What you did was wrong. You know it was. Borne out of extreme circumstances as this has been, cutting is  _ still _ wrong. We’ll work on it. You will have to promise me to be honest and not hide it if these particular demons come haunting you,’ he said facing Sherlock who was still looking at the floor. ‘You cannot bring your not-best-friend in your bedroom in such a state,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘We’ll clean that up, and then you and I will enjoy some time on that huge bed of yours. The chair was getting a bit cramped anyway,’ he added. 

‘Quite right,’ Sherlock agreed.


End file.
